


Ennuiklok

by knockoutmouse



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Bisexuality erasure, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Misogyny, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Excessively phonetic accents, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Handcuffs, Heavy BDSM, Inexperienced Dom, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Man-children who can't deal with discussing their feelings, Rough Sex, Sickfic, Spanking, bad BDSM practices, misogynist language, poorly-negotiated BDSM, roleplay noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Originally written/posted on ff.net in 2010. Reposted here with minor edits.Skwisgaar helps Nathan find a cure for his malaise, while Pickles takes care of a (not really) sick Toki.





	Ennuiklok

**Author's Note:**

> ~~At least this serves as a before-example for proof that your writing starts to suck less if you do it long enough~~
> 
> Why are Skwisgaar's internal thoughts in broken English too? What was I thinking lol
> 
> Also, it's generally considered bad practice to combine alcohol and BDSM, so don't do this. Also just generally don't emulate anything in this story.

Things were odd in Mordhaus. That is to say, things were odd because nothing unusual was going on, and unusual goings-on were, in fact, the normal state of things. It was all too quiet. Toki hadn't brought home any stray cats or clowns, Skwisgaar hadn't been seen in the company of any particularly repellant groupies, Murderface wasn't stabbing anything (or at least his stabbing had lacked enthusiasm of late) and Pickles's usual substance abuse had been rather subdued. Charles, too, had been staying in his office, busy with paperwork, not tasking the band with any publicity appearances or damage control, or even urging them into the recording studio, since their latest album was on the verge of release.

And Nathan—well, Nathan also seemed a lot quieter than usual. He'd been keeping to himself, not showing up at mealtimes, being more anti-social than usual. Not that anything would have compelled the others to admit that they'd noticed, mind you—everyone knows that caring isn't metal—but if they had, they might have acknowledged that, yes, Nathan had been seen skulking in the corners, writing in his notebook and then violently crossing out most of what he had written.

Not that anyone cared. It wasn't as if they'd meant to _have a discussion_ about it one afternoon, or even meant to congregate in the living room. It had just happened.

Toki had been there first, playing video games as usual, but, to his dismay, didn't have the energy or motivation to beat his own scores at DDR any more. He sighed and went over the sofa, sulking, flopped down on the oversized cushions, reached for the bowl of candy on the coffee table, and then withdrew his hand. He just didn't feel like eating any candy today.

"Maysbes I's sick," he murmured to himself. "Maysbes I has de flues." Toki was still wondering just how to determine whether he had "de flues" when Skwisgaar wandered in, fingers running listlessly over the fretboard of his guitar. He looked up at Toki only briefly before he, too, threw himself onto the sofa.

"Why amnest you looks-kinks like somethings has gone and died?" asked Skwisgaar.

"I thinks maysbes I's has de flues," said Toki. "Tells me, what ams de symptoms? Amnest I should be hot?"

"Pfft, little Toki thinks he ams hot now, like me."

"Shuts up, Skwisgaar! Don't be dildos. I thinks I's really sicks."

Skwisgaar sighed and was about to answer when Pickles came in, looking shaken, and sank into an armchair. Almost immediately, a Klokateer appeared to bring him one of his usual fancy cocktails. He drank half of it in one go and then swung his feet up over the arm of the chair.

"Doods, I think we gotta do somethin'," he said.

"What abouts?" asked Toki.

"Doesn't it seem to you guys that things have been a little, ya know, _off_ lately?"

"I thinks I's sick," repeated Toki pathetically, curling up on his end of the sofa and wishing he had his Deddy Bear with him.

"Ja, amn'ts feelinks so great mineself lately," agreed Skwisgaar. "I have not been feelinks up to more than two, maybe three GMILFs at a times."

"Oh, pleasche!" said Murderface as he strode into the room. "You're really bitshching about having too many hot—" he quickly amended his statement to remove the adjective, "well, too many women to schleep with?"

"No, doods, listen," insisted Pickles. "I just ran into Nate in the hallway, and he's actin' all weird."

"What, isch he asch boring asch everyone elsche around here?" said Murderface, seating himself on the floor near the sofa and taking out his knife, but not finding anything particularly enticing to carve up with it.

"Nat'ans still am mopings arounds all de times?" asked Toki, sitting up a little. "He ams been likes dat for days."

"Yeah, that's what I been trying to tell ya," said Pickles a little irritably. "I just seen 'im, right, and he's just standing there at the window, starin' out at the yard wolves and writin' in his notebook. It's creepy."

"What ams you wants-kinks us to do about it, huh?" asked Skwisgaar derisively. "Plays de nurses-maids?"

"Yeah, you know it'sch againscht the rulesch to schow any interescht—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," said Pickles. "Only—look at it this way—it's affectin' the rest of the band, see?"

"It ams affects-kings us?" repeated Toki concernedly.

"Well, yeah. I mean, look at us, Toki—you're sick, Murderface don't feel like stabbin' nothin', Skwisgaar can't get it up—"

"Hey!" objected the guitarist. "I amnest never saids I amnest cans-nots gets it ups," he said quickly, his English noticeably worsening in his haste to refute the outrageous accusation.

"Not to mention you ain't touched your guitar since I been in the room," Pickles continued. "An' me, I can't drink, I can't sleep, I don't even feel like doin' nothin' heavier than pot."

"Scho what?" sighed Murderface, dragging the tip of his knife lazily down the side Pickles's chair, but without enough interest to actually cut into the leather.

"Don't ya see, Murderface? All this is like, way unmetal. It's all been goin' on since Nathan started bein' like this." Pickles leaned in closer to the others. "Nathan's the one makin' us unmetal, guys."

"Hey, yeah," Murderface agreed. "I schaw thisch thing on the newsch. Schaysch that having depressched roommatesch makesch you all wacko too."

"Oooh," said Toki. "Dat ams not good."

"Somebody's gotta do somethin' about it, then," reasoned Pickles. "We can't just have him makin' us like that too."

"Scho who'sch gonna talk to him?"

"Pfft, thats'll go overs well. Gets de robot to dos it."

"Nah, dood, if we tell Offdensen, he'll make us talk to that crazy therapist again."

"Dat guy ams dildos!" said Skwisgaar, his eyes flying open. "Last times he slappsed at mine face!"

"Exactly," said Pickles. "So, I nominate you, then."

"Me's too!" cried Toki gleefully.

"Whats? No!" protested Skwisgaar.

"I schure asch hell ain't doin' it," said Murderface.

"Come on, Skwisgaar. It's either this or Twinkletits again," said Pickles.

"Fine," said the Swede shortly, folding his arms and sulking. "But you amnest all dildos."

"Well," said Pickles, standing up (and looking rather more cheerful now) "No time like the present."

" _Nows?_ " said Skwisgaar. "You didn't say it hads to be _nows_."

"Good lucks, Skwisgaar," said Toki with an evil chuckle, rising from the sofa and snatching the bowl of candy from the table on his way out of the room.

"Later, douschebagsch," said Murderface as he too departed.

"B-buts—"

"Course, ya can always get Offdensen to talk to 'im if you don't wanna do it," said Pickles.

Skwisgaar sighed, knowing he was defeated. "Where ams he ats?"

"In the north hallway on the second floor, last time I saw him," the drummer told him before he gulped down the rest of his drink and stumbled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Skwisgaar quite alone.

###

It was on the third floor, at one of the west windows, that Skwisgaar finally found him. The really disconcerting thing was that Nathan was no longer watching the yard wolves. He was watching the _sunset_.

"So's...Nat'ans," began Skwisgaar uneasily. "You, ah, you been workinks on de new songs, ja?"

Nathan looked up slowly from the window, clearly not having heard a word the guitarist had said. "Huh?"

"I saids, you amnest been doing de writs-kinks, workinks on songs?"

"I—uh, no. No, not really. Nothing usable." Nathan sighed, and his gaze went back to the sunset.

"Ah, you has de writer's block?"

"Um. Sort of. I don't really—"

"You shoulds let me see whats you ams havinks so far," said Skwisgaar. He didn't really have much interest in whatever Nathan was working on—it wasn't as if he'd have to sing it himself, after all—but it seemed a better alternative than actually carrying out his assignment. That would involve talking about _feelings_. He barely repressed a small shudder at the thought. Having feelings was certainly not metal.

"No," said Nathan, clapping his notebook closed. "I don't think—"

"Ah, comes on, Nat'ans. Maybes I can be helpinks."

"I don't want you to be helping!" he growled. "I want you to be leaving me alone!"

Skwisgaar made a grab for the notebook.

"Skwisgaar! What's your problem?" demanded Nathan, holding the notebook out of his reach, or at least trying to, considering that the Swede was easily taller than him.

"It ams either dis or talks-kinks abouts de feelinks and craps," said Skwisgaar, his face coloring a little.

"What?" said Nathan, mystified. "What does that have to do with—?"

But he had let his guard down, and Skwisgaar had snatched the notebook from him.

"Give that back." His voice was calm and menacing.

"No. Why amnest you wantinks me to not look at what you writes?" He unconsciously took a step back, as it looked like Nathan was only a few seconds away from his furious glare turning into some kind of death ray. Which, admittedly, would be pretty brutal if it did happen, but Skwisgaar didn't want to be its first victim.

"Because—uhh—because—All right, look," he snapped, "because it's complete shit, okay?"

"Cannots be dat bad. Here, I looks at it and—and—" He felt his resolve draining away. "All rights, Nat'ans, I tells you de truth. De odders amnest sendinks me."

"The others sent you? What for?" The death glare only got more intense.

"I cannots be tellinks you. It ams against de rules."

"What rules?" Nathan growled. "What's been going on behind my back?"

"De rules of de beings metal. Not interferes-kink, not cari—ah, none of de gettinks involved, in de lives, ja? Like you amnest have said."

"What the hell are you talking about? I never—oh, well, I did say that," he acknowledged grudgingly.

"Manies times, ja," agreed Skwisgaar.

"So you're telling me the guys sent _you_ to talk to me but you can't tell me why, and this has to do with what I've been writing—how, exactly?"

"Ah—it ams a little comps-lisk-ated."

"What it is is fucking bizarre," muttered the singer. "I need a drink."

"Ja, alkskohols!" said Skwisgaar brightly, feeling desperate. ( _Stupids Pickle, makinks me do dis. He should know my Englishes am nots good enough._ ) "Dat wills be helps-kinks."

"I—yeah, whatever. Fine. Come on." Nathan grabbed Skwisgaar by the wrist, perhaps rather harder than was necessary, and started down the hall.

###

Meanwhile, back in his own room, Pickles was enjoying a bottle of vodka while glancing occasionally at some mindless TV show he'd turned to, where everyone had a British accent and seemed to be shouting at each other. Whatever. He took another drink of vodka. He should feel better now, he told himself. The problem was taken care of. Skwisgaar could handle it. The atmosphere of gloom would lift.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yeah? Who's there?"

"It ams Tokis," answered a pitiful voice from the hallway. "Cans I come ins?"

"What's up, Toki?" said the drummer, opening the door. "Ya don't sound too good."

"I don'ts feels so good, neither. I thinks I ams still gettings sick." Toki sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall.

"Dood, it's probably from eatin' all that candy."

"But I didn't eats it," he protested feebly. "I takes it with me, but den I's not feelings so goods."

The Norwegian's face _was_ a little pale, Pickles noticed. He reached out a hand cautiously and touched the other man's forehead.

"Dood, you're kinda warm. I think ya got a fever."

"I tries to tells Skwisgaar dat but he onlies makes fun of me."

"Yeah, well, he can be a dick sometimes. Here, have some—" It occurred to him that vodka might not be the best flu medicine. "Eh, how about I get one of the Klokateers to bring ya something, huh?"

"Wowee, Pickle," said Toki, letting his eyes fall closed and his head rest against the stone wall. "You ams one such pretty nice guy."

"Sure, sure," muttered Pickles, embarrassed, and picked up his Dethphone to order someone to bring whatever you were supposed to have for a flu. Fried chicken, chicken soup, some shit like that. Not as if anybody had ever cared enough to take care of him when he'd been sick. He'd developed his own version of self-medicating, which usually involved alcohol and various prescription pills that hadn't necessarily been prescribed to him. Hell, he still had plenty of both in his room right now, but you never knew quite what would happen with Toki when you gave him that stuff. Besides, Toki was practically just a kid still; he didn't need his life screwed up too, any more than it already had been. That, and if he got really sick, he'd make a hell of a mess in the room here. Yeah, that was the only reason. At least that's what Pickles told himself as he spoke to the Klokateer, making sure his demands sounded extra harsh and brutal to make up for the dangerously unbrutal thoughts he'd almost just had.

###

"Where ams we goings?" Skwisgaar inquired they had turned several corners in the hallway. He was having slight difficulty keeping up with Nathan's angry stride, and his arm was beginning to hurt a little.

"Here." Nathan threw open the door to his room, letting go of the blonde as he gestured him inside, followed him in, shut the door, and quickly produced a bottle of whiskey from the closet. He opened it, took a long swig, and passed the bottle to the very confused guitarist as he sat down on the bed.

"Now would you fucking please tell me what is going on?" he demanded once Skwisgaar had taken a drink.

"When you promises me dat you will not be killinks me for it?"

Nathan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose as if carefully considering the idea. "Only if you keep evading the question," he said finally.

"All rights. De odders, they amnest all depressed and dey say it's you as ams makinks dem depressed by bek-havinks dis way, like you am wantinks to go on vacations to cry-baby's house, but dey say robot butler will brings back de crazy Twinkletits if we tells him—" Skwisgaar broke off, took another drink, and offered the bottle back to Nathan, who didn't take it, so he set it down on the bedside table and edged a few steps away.

"Dat ams alls, reallies," he said uncomfortably, trying to avoid looking his bandmate in the eye. _Nat'ans is angries, and now he amnest going to kick mines ass._ Skwisgaar rubbed his wrist gingerly where Nathan had grabbed him. _Should never haves listened to Pickle. Stupid dildos Twinkletits maybe woulds not be so bad after all._

"Ah...Nat'ans?" he said after a moment, realizing more and more with each passing second how much nicer it would be not to be in that particular room with that particular brooding singer. "Amnest—"

"I don't want to talk about it!"

"So...something really ams wrong?" said Skwisgaar in uncomfortable realization, then cursing himself again. He didn't want to know. It wasn't his business. It wasn't metal to care about these things.

"I, uh, I guess so. But I don't really want to—" he broke off with a sigh. "Fine. You remember Rebecca?"

"Ja, but dat was longs time ago," said Skwisgaar, a little confused. "You still upsets because you get dumpsed by lady in coma?"

"No! I mean—it's sort of, I dunno, more like, not...Rebecca...specifically, more like that kind of thing...generally...speaking," he concluded incoherently.

"Nat'ans, I do not understands what you're sayinks."

"It's like...women...sex...but not exactly. I, uh, I tried to write it down but I didn't really get anywhere."

"Let me sees de writinks?" asked Skwisgaar, by this point not really wanting to, and seemingly forgetting that he himself was in possession of Nathan's notebook.

"Uh... oh, what the hell. Go on. Read it. But," his expression darkened, "if you run and tell the other guys, I will actually kill you. Got it?"

"Ja, ja, I gots it."

Apprehensively, feeling almost a bit sick to his stomach, Skwisgaar flipped through the pages until he came to the most recently filled ones, marked by much crossing out and smudged ink.

_Song Ideas:_

_Sex—brutal sex—_

_brutal sex to fill my need—copulation, make me bleed—_

_A willing slave, from bondage freed—punish me for my misdeeds_

_Make me plead_

_Make me bleed_

_~~I want~~ _

_~~Anything if~~ _

_~~Won't you~~ _

The rest of the potential lines were crossed out so heavily that he couldn't make them out at all.

"Wow, Nat'ans, pretty brutal. You writes brutal sexy love song from point of view of de ladies, ja?"

"Um. No. Not really. It's, uh, kind of a shitty song, so if you just wanna forget about—"

"No, it ams way brutals!" said Skwisgaar. "But you confuskinks me, with de part about fillinks need and bleed and all dat. It ams really soundinks like point of view for ladies durings sex."

Nathan rubbed a hand over his face in embarrassment, some of which may have been embarrassment at his guitarist's density. "No. It's from the point of view of, uh. Me."

###

Toki had taken up residence in Pickles's bed, propped up with pillows. Surrounding him were a box of tissues, a stack of DVDs (mostly cartoons), and a tray with chicken soup, orange juice, and various other sickbed fare. Absent from the bed was a certain drummer, who was currently perusing his stash of liquor in the closet and wondering why the hell he'd let Toki into his room in the first place. Now he was probably going to get Pickles sick, too. Just what he needed.

"Hey, Pickle?"

"Yeah?"

"Which of dese movies shoulds we be watching?"

"I don't give—" Seeing the hurt expression on the younger man's face, he quickly changed his reply. "Eh, well, what ya got there, Toki?"

He glanced at the videos which were now spread out over the guitarist's lap and much of the bed. "Heh. Disney. I haven't seen anythin' like that since—well, since a long time ago."

"What ams dis one—Peters Pan?"

"Oh, uh, that one's about this kid, right, and he doesn't wanna grow up, so he sneaks into this chick's room at night an' gives her and the other kids some shit that makes 'em think they can fly and go to this magic place with pirates and fairies—"

"Oh, wowee! I wants to watch dis one, Pickle."

"Okay, sure." He grabbed the remote and started to turn on the DVD player.

"Pickle, wait!"

"Yeah?" _What now?_

"Dat guy, ons de TV, he haves red bootses like you."

"Like me?" asked Pickles, sneaking a look down at his tennis shoes just to be sure he _wasn't_ for some unknown reason wearing the aforementioned colorful footwear.

"Ja, when you was in Snake and Barrel," Toki nodded. "I saws it on de TV, remember?"

Pickles preferred to forget about most things from the 80s, especially when it came to his wardrobe. He sighed. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Not'ings, just thinking dey looksed real cool. You still have?"

"I dunno. Maybe." He sighed again, put the disk in the player, and gave the remote back to Toki. "I'll look. You finish your soup. It'll make ya feel better."

"Pickle?"

"Yeah?" he said resignedly, turning away from his closet, which he had just opened again to oblige Toki's latest whim.

"How ams you knowing what to do for sick?"

"I—eh, I was sick a lot when I was a kid. No more questions, okay?"

"Ja, okays."

###

"Oh," said Skwisgaar. "Well, dat ams okay. Bondage can still be metals," he added desperately.

"That's, uh, that's really not the point of it."

"Is it dat you are wantinks de sex? Why not just go hires a whore, then?"

"I don't, uh, don't want that kind of sex."

"Plenties of de groupies around, if you don't wants to pay for it," the Swede suggested.

"I don't—"

"Oh, you am wantinks a girls-friends again. Okies, so you tries do onslines datskinks again, ja?"

" _No_. Skwisgaar, _you are not listening_ to me. I don't want _that kind_ of sex."

"I, ah, I ams not undersk-standinks," said Skwisgaar uneasily, because this was in fact a lie. He was beginning to suspect that he did indeed understand, and he wasn't at all sure that he wanted to. "If you ams not wantinks de sex with de ladies, den you are—ah, you are wantinks sex with de mens?"

Nathan glared at him. "Yes. And if you tell anyone—"

"Pfft, why shoulds I be tellinks? Dat amnest not so brutal. Would makes all of us look bads."

"Not brutal?" repeated Nathan. "How would you know? Ever tried it?" He had said it automatically, not actually expecting to get an answer, so he was more than a little surprised when Skwisgaar hesitated before answering.

"Wells—not reskentlies, I admits, but—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold up," said the singer, trying to process this. "You've fucked dudes before?"

"When—when I still liveds in Sweden. Couples times. Just wanted to tries it," he added defensively. Of course, he had never exactly decided he didn't like it, just that it was easier to go after girls because that was what everyone expected, and being gay, or at least not strictly straight—it wasn't as if he didn't _like_ doing it with women—was not very metal.

"Ah, Nat'ans? Why ams you lookinks at me like dat?"

Because it was true that Nathan's expression had turned to that of a fox eyeing a particularly plump and tempting rabbit.

"I like blondes" he said truthfully (and, in Skwisgaar's opinion, a little alarmingly, considering the lecherous look in his eye).

"You amnest wantinks _me_?" he asked, his astonished voice barely rising above a whisper. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. A bit worried, yes—it had been a long time, and he didn't do that anymore—but maybe also a bit pleased. After all, Nathan Explosion could have almost any woman he wanted, and now he wanted Skwisgaar. Of course, he was used to women wanting him—who wouldn't? But this was something a little different.

But why him? Why not some groupie, some Klokateer, someone who had nothing to lose by it?

_What do I haves to lose, anyways?_ Skwisgaar asked himself. _Just everything to do with de band, you stupids dildo, dat amnest what._

"How amnest you knowinks dat if you has sex with de mens—with me, maysbes—den you will be feelinks better?"

"I, uh, I don't know. I mean, I might not." Nathan took another drink of whiskey, got up, and went to the window again. "And I, uh, wouldn't want—don't feel obligated. You don't want to. I get it."

"No, Nat'ans, it ams not exactly dat—"

"Skwisgaar, I know you'd only be doing it to, uh, you know, get me to stop being—being whatever," he said uncertainly. "Just go tell the rest of the guys I said for you all to fuck off, all right?"

"No, I cannots be doing dat. And I am nots sayinks I amnest entirely opposed to dis suggestion."

Nathan turned from the window to regard him warily. "You're not?"

"No. Just needs some gettinks used to de idea, dat is all." He didn't mention that he had become aroused by the thought of Nathan wanting him, maybe even submitting to him, if his lyrics were any indication of what he wanted.

"Oh. Well, then," said Nathan, raising his bottle of whiskey, "Let's have some more to drink."

###

"Can't believe I'm doin' this," Pickles grumbled as he sat on the floor in front of his closet, struggling to pull on his left boot. He'd gotten the right one on already, but it had taken effort—the leather was old, and he hadn't worn them in years. He hadn't thought he'd ever wear them again after Snakes & Barrels broke up.

Toki sat watching him in fascination, Peter Pan playing in the background but completely forgotten.

Pickles should have known, of course, that as soon as he'd located his old boots, in a battered cardboard box at the back of his closet, Toki was going to ask him to put them on. Bracing his foot against the wall, he gave the boot a vicious tug, and it finally slipped onto his foot.

"There," he said, standing up and taking a few cautious steps. "Ya happy now?"

"Oh, wowee, Pickle! Dat amnest so awesomes and metal."

"Eh, well, I wouldn't exactly call it metal, dood, but whatever ya say." Christ, the way the kid was staring at him in admiration, you'd think he'd just invented gravity or something. "Heh. What ya lookin' at, Toki?"

"Oh, I was just wonderings what else you gots in your box dere."

"Well, let's see. Headband, gloves—"

"Ooh, Pickle, puts dem on!"

Pickles sighed. "Okay, but then ya really gotta take it easy an' just watch your movie, all right?"

"Ja, okays. You watches it with me?"

"Yeah, sure," said Pickles, tying on the headband. It looked a little ridiculous on him now with his dreadlocks, he realized as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Hell, what did it matter? It made Toki happy, for some weird reason—and dammit, it made Pickles happy too, not that he'd ever admit it.

He pulled on the red gloves and climbed onto the bed next to Toki, grabbing a few pillows to make himself comfortable against the headboard.

"Pickle?" whispered Toki before turning his attention back to the cartoon pirates.

"Yeah?"

"You ams really cool."

###

Skwisgaar eyed the handcuffs dangling from Nathan's fingertips with trepidation. They looked so—metal. Cold, unyielding metal that would cut into flesh, draw blood to the surface, make it spill over.

"You wants me to be puttinks dese on you?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Is that, I mean, are you cool with that?"

"Ja, I thinks so," said Skwisgaar, barely able to stand the feeling of his tight pants around his hardening cock.

"And I, uh, I want you to smack me around a little, too."

"I has never dones dat, but I will try. What amnest you wantinks as safewords?"

"Safeword? I dunno—uh—" He glanced at the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. "Crown Royal. Yeah. That's pretty metal."

"Ja, okies. Well, I guess, heres we goes." Skwisgaar took the handcuffs and clicked one cuff onto Nathan's left wrist. "Ah, you are wantinks your hands in fronts of you, or behind?"

Nathan sighed. This was not exactly going how he'd expected. "Behind. And look, Skwis, if you're going to dominate someone, you've got to stop being so, you know, nice about it. Be normal, act like a total dick."

"You ams a stupid dildo," he said with feeling, seizing the singer's other wrist none too gently and snapping the other cuff into place.

"See, that's better."

"Shuts up."

Nathan shut up. Problem was, now Skwisgaar didn't know what to do. He knew what he _wanted_ to do, but he didn't know what he was _supposed_ to do.

"Ah...Nat'ans...what you ams wantinks me to do now?"

"I want you to slap me."

"Amnest you sure?"

" _Yes_."

"Okies." Skwisgaar closed his eyes, raised his hand, and—gave the singer a light tap on the cheek with his fingertips. Nathan simply stared at him.

"What the fuck was that?" he finally said.

"Not—not hards enough, ja?"

"Not nearly."

"Sorries."

"Put some rage behind it. And, uh, don't ask me what I want, that defeats the purpose."

"Okies. Gives me a minute." Skwisgaar closed his eyes, thinking back to the last time they'd all gotten into a fistfight at one of their concerts. Well, Nathan hadn't really done anything to him then. But Murderface—Murderface had hit him and knocked him down. He'd definitely like to hit Murderface.

Skwisgaar took a deep breath, held on to the animosity for a few extra seconds, opened his eyes, and dealt Nathan a vicious slap across the face. Then he felt...bad? That was something new. He generally didn't hit people without provocation—though of course "being dildos" was all the provocation it took; in his mind that made it justifiable. _No reasons to feels bad_ , he told himself firmly. _He ams wantinks it_.

Skwisgaar slapped Nathan again, this time splitting open his lip. "How ams you likinks dat, bitch?"

Nathan, looking dazed, didn't answer, so Skwisgaar grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him forward, off balance, making him fall hard to his knees. With his wrists cuffed, Nathan couldn't do anything to catch himself, and so continued falling, giving a cry of pain and surprise as the side of his face struck the stone floor.

Skwisgaar grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back up to his knees. "Now sucks mine dick," he ordered.

Breathing heavily, Nathan glared up at him with a hatred that the Swede would have feared had the larger man not been restrained. Skwisgaar hoped it was part of the act. If not, he didn't want to be around once this was over.

"What if I won't?" he growled.

"Den I keeps on slappskinks you untils you do's." Skwisgaar undid his skull belt buckle. "Now make with de suckinks."

"How the hell do you expect me to do it with your pants on?"

"You will takes dem off, with your teeths."

This was an admirable idea, but a little difficult to execute. Sure, it looked good in the movies, but the problem was that undoing someone's fly with one's teeth is not as easy as it might sound. As much as Nathan tried, eventually attempting to simply tear the cloth open, he couldn't do it.

Skwisgaar pushed him away scornfully. "Pfft, little dildos, can't do anythings right." He unzipped and pulled down his jeans and boxers. "Nows we will be seeinks if you can do's dis de right way."

He lay one hand on Nathan's head, fingers twisting into his hair and bringing the singer's face in close to his erect member. "Takes it."

Nathan hesitated, and Skwisgaar raised his hand threateningly. With seeming reluctance, Nathan leaned forward and took the tip of Skwisgaar's cock into his mouth. Without waiting for further invitation, Skwisgaar thrust all the way in, causing Nathan to choke on his length and utter an unintelligible protest.

"What's dat? You say you wants more?" He moved one long-fingered hand to the back of Nathan's head and held him stationary, helpless, thrusting into his throat as he gagged and whimpered around it, eyes beginning to water. This was fucking powerful, Skwisgaar realized. This was amazing. This—needed to stop before he came too soon.

He stopped just as quickly as he had begun and let go of Nathan, but to his surprise, the singer didn't immediately move away. Instead, he pulled back a little and began moving up and down Skwisgaar's cock, sucking a little, doing some maddening tickling trick with his tongue on the underside of his head—

"I think it ams time for something else now," said Skwisgaar.

###

Pickles sat next to Toki, only half watching the video that held the Norwegian's rapt attention. He kept glancing in the mirror, at first suppressing laughter at how absurd he looked (or maybe only how absurd he felt) in his old headband and boots, and then, after a bit, wishing he still kept some eyeliner around. That's what was missing, he realized. If he had the complete look going on, it wouldn't seem half so ridiculous.

Well, it wasn't like he couldn't get hold of some makeup if he wanted to. And hell, the kid would get a kick out of seeing it. Pickles grinned, then quickly forced his default expression—one step to the hostile side of blank—to return to his face. He got up and went into his bathroom. Toki didn't question it. Good.

He turned on the faucet, dialed a number on his Dethphone, and gave the Klokateer who answered a list of what he wanted.

"Do you have a preferred brand, my lord?"

"Huh? Brand? Nah, I dunno about that kinda stuff."

"Very well, my lord. I will dispatch one of our staff who is knowledgeable about such things to fulfill your command."

Pickles clicked the phone off and returned to the bedroom. Toki was still absorbed in the movie, watching Peter Pan and Captain Hook battle in midair. Within fifteen minutes, there was a knock at the door, the quiet, efficient knock of a Klokateer. Pickles got up, ducked as he passed in front of the TV, and answered. A Klokateer handed him a plain paper bag.

"I have brought you Max Factor, my lord. I hope that you find it satisfactory."

"Sure, sure. Thanks," said Pickles, slamming the door in his face.

"Hey, where yous going, Pickle?" asked Toki as he started back toward the bathroom.

"Uh, I, uh, gotta take a piss," he lied.

"Agains?"

But Pickles didn't answer, having already locked the bathroom door behind him.

###

"I saids we ams done with this!" said Skwisgaar as Nathan continued running his tongue up and down his shaft. "Nows!" He grabbed him by the hair and pulled him away, giving him another slap for good measure and the shoving him against the bed.

"Now stands up."

Nathan stood. Skwisgaar noticed with some concern that he wasn't looking too well by this point: blood trickled down his chin, and the flesh over his left cheekbone was swollen and beginning to bruise. _He ams wantinks it. I do nots understands, but if it ams what he wants..._

Skwisgaar undid Nathan's pants and pulled them down to his knees, then pushed him facedown onto the bed before kicking off his own boots and pants completely.

"Where you keeps de lubes?"

No answer.

Skwisgaar brought his hand down as hard as he could on Nathan's bare ass. "Wheres?"

"I'm not telling you."

The blonde hit him again, and again, spanking him until the palm of his hand stung, making Nathan howl with some ungodly combination of pain and pleasure.

"Tells me where, or I wills go withouts it."

"In—in the drawer. There." He nodded backward to the nightstand. Skwisgaar gave him one more slap on the ass, then took out the lube and poured a liberal amount onto his fingers.

"You ares nothing but a horny sluts, you knows dat?"

"Fuck you."

"Nej, dat is what I will be doings." Skwisgaar plunged one finger into Nathan without warning, making him cry out in surprise. "I makes you screams like de little bitch for me, ja?" he said, working in a second finger.

"No."

"I thinks you will."

Nathan hissed sharply as Skwisgaar's fingers brushed against his prostate. "F—fuck," he said, voice shaking.

"Shuts up. No talking," Skwisgaar decided, leaning over Nathan and pressing his face down against the bed, fingering him deeper at the same time. Nathan moaned into the mattress.

"," he murmured in Swedish. " _You can't get enough._ "

Skwisgaar pulled away from him now, leaving him empty, wanting more, as he poured more lube into his hand and stroked his cock with it. He could see now that Nathan's wrists were raw and bruised too; obviously he had been straining at the handcuffs. Skwisgaar climbed onto the bed, straddling Nathan, and entered him brutally hard and fast, making him scream again. He pulled out a little and thrust in again, hard, deep, going slow at first but making it clear that he was in charge.

He reached out to steady himself, then got another idea, raking his fingernails down Nathan's back, raising angry red scratches, then doing it again, again until he could see flecks of blood. Then he leaned forward and bit his shoulder, scraping his teeth over the skin until he could taste iron. Skwisgaar licked the wound while he fucked Nathan, who roared and bucked underneath him, as though trying to throw him off. Skwisgaar put one hand to the back of his neck and forced him flat to the bed again, raising himself up and increasing his pace until Nathan was practically sobbing, begging him to let him finish.

"God, come on, please, I can't—I can't take any more, I need to come—"

Skwisgaar didn't answer, just grabbed him by the hips and forced him into an awkward position with his ass in the air and his face still on the bed, and began to stroke Nathan's erect cock quickly as he continued slamming into him.

"Fuck—Skwisgaar—" he panted. The blonde thrust harder, stroked faster. Nathan came, howling, shuddering, drenched in sweat, and not long after, Skwisgaar followed suit, emptying himself into the bigger man and then collapsing on top of him.

That had been fucking exhausting.

###

"Pickle? Ams everything okay in dere?" called Toki.

"Yeah, hang on, gimme a second, okay?" Pickles surveyed himself in the mirror: eyeliner, metallic mascara, glitter eyeshadow. He probably wouldn't wear makeup again, at least not for a while, but hell, it brought back memories.

"Hey, Toki?"

"Yeah?"

"Close your eyes till I come out, okay?"

"Ja, okays."

Pickles opened the door, flipped the bathroom lights off, and stepped out in front of Toki. "Okay. You can look now."

"Oh, wo _wee_!" said Toki, his eyes huge. "You looks just like you did in Snake and Barrel!"

"Heh, well, maybe not quite just like that, but, ya know—"

"No, Pickle, it ams _perfect_ ,"

"Perfect, huh?"

"Ja, I really likes. Come here."

"Eh, okay." He didn't really know what Toki wanted, but what the hell. Here he was, practically playing dress up to indulge him, whatever else he wanted couldn't be that much worse. Oh. Toki was hugging him. That was—unexpected. Okay, he could hug back, he guessed. Huh. And now Toki was kissing him on the cheek. _Eh, well, the kid's from Europe, that's what guys do over there, right?_ he thought. Except now—well, now, Toki was kissing him on the mouth, and—using tongue? Even Pickles was pretty sure they didn't do _that_ so innocently in Norway. But he found himself kissing Toki back, and damned if he wasn't _enjoying_ it.

"Pickle?" said Toki, breaking away from the kiss to catch his breath.

"Yeah?" said Pickles, still a little overwhelmed by everything.

"I _really_ likes your makeup."

"I, eh, I can see that," he said, blushing a little.

"You knows what else?"

"Nah, what's that?"

"I think I ams not feelings so sick after all. You watches rest of de movie with me?" Toki batted his eyelashes invitingly as he scooted back to the other side of the bed.

"Hell yeah, I will."

###

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Skwisgaar lifted himself up off Nathan, found the key to the handcuffs on the nightstand, and freed the singer, who examined the damage to his wrists with a detached curiosity as he sat up.

"Uh. Thanks," he said, his voice hoarse now. "I think I do feel a little better."

"Ja, dat ams good," replied Skwisgaar cautiously.

"You, uh, you don't have to stay any longer if you don't want to."

"Oh. Okies. I will be goings, den," said Skwisgaar, getting up to gather his clothing. He had to admit to himself that that remark did sting a little. Even he, notorious though he was for his promiscuity, didn't kick the groupies out as soon as he was done with them.

"I mean, uh, you don't have to. I just meant you shouldn't, you know, like I said, feel...obligated or anything."

"I am nots feelinks obligs-skated. Here. Lets me help you cleans up a little, ja?" He went into the bathroom, rummaged in the medicine cabinet until he found some antibiotic ointment, and ran a hand towel under warm water.

When he came back into the bedroom, Nathan was sitting on the edge of the bed, giving orders on his Dethphone. "No, I don't care what kind. Just bring me a pot of tea. No, two cups. And just leave it outside the door. Got it?"

When he saw Skwisgaar, he hung up and tossed his phone onto the night stand, explaining in embarrassment, "I, uh, need...something...for my throat now."

"Two teacups, Nat'ans? Dat ams practically beings like married."

"Yeah, shut up," he growled, wincing as Skwisgaar applied the wet towel to his face, wiping away the now-dried blood, then bathing in turn his wrists, shoulder, and back.

"I did nots means to cause you so much injure-skies," he said, reluctant though he was to admit it.

"It's okay. Just means we should give it a while til next time. Uh. If you want a next time. You weren't too bad," he added. "Once you got the hang of it, I mean."

"I think I woulds not be objectinks to dat," said Skwisgaar, rubbing ointment into Nathan's shoulder.

"Oh, hey, Skwis?"

"Ja?"

"You, uh, want to take back what you said about this not being brutal enough?"

"Ja, well, perhaps I was mistakes-ken. It ams plenties brutal."


End file.
